


Chaconne

by Wolf_of_Lilacs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dumbledore is an asshole, Even Voldemort was Human Once, Gen, Inspired by Music, music is life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 07:31:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8703265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/Wolf_of_Lilacs
Summary: Music is not Tom's destiny, yet it has made him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The piece I reference is the [Chaconne in G Minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WhS75OIfFIg) by Vitali.

People who make music together cannot be enemies, at least while the music lasts. - Paul Hindemith

MUSICIANS WANTED  
_The Hon. Cecilia Malfoy is sponsoring a gala and competition for interested student musicians. Prizes will be awarded to the top three performers, and range from 10-30 Sickles. Interested applicants should contact Ms. Malfoy by owl within two weeks.  
Location: Hogsmeade Chamber Hall._

Tom stared at the unexpected announcement on the Entrance Hall bulletin board. Cash prizes for the best performance? he mused. Heaven knew he could use the money (any money at all, really) for his quest to achieve immortality and take these wretched Pure-Blood sheep in hand. It wasn't an absolute necessity, mind, but it would certainly facilitate his success. Thirty Sickles, after all, would not be frowned upon; he'd be able to buy dress robes, or at least replace his ragged school robes with something of higher quality ...

But what to play? Unaccompanied? Accompanied? The latter was undoubtedly his second choice, for trusting someone else to complement his ability carried far too many risks. Though "risk" was perhaps misleading. Who possessed the talent to play whatever piece he chose anyway? Certainly none of his devoted associates. Pure-Bloods taught their daughters piano as a matter of course, but few considered it more than a token of their nobility (unless one was Lucretia Black, but never mind that). And their sons? Music was unknowable for such as they. 

He paused in his plotting. One person did in fact play magnificently, but ... he dogged his every step and would never condone Tom's goals. No matter. Dumbledore had many talents, music being the least of them.

"Professor?" Tom approached his nemesis at the end of the following day's Transfiguration class. "I have a favor—rather, a proposition for you."

Dumbledore considered him, his expression utterly inscrutable. "And what might that be, Tom?"

"A simple matter of lending your prodigious piano playing to my performance in Cecilia Malfoy's contest," Tom said. He cringed at the obvious flattery. Dumbledore would not respond well.

He was proven only somewhat correct. "And what, pray tell, do you play?" Dumbledore asked, scrutinizing him over his steepled fingers. "Surely you are aware that I have already refused several requests."

"Oh yes. I witnessed a Hufflepuff flutist—Coreen Fleming, I believe her name is—in tears just this morning."

Dumbledore bowed his head. "Oh dear. I suspect I should have been more tactful."

"I was able to acquire a violin at the orphanage," Tom continued.

Dumbledore frowned slightly at this. "By which means I suppose I do not wish to know. No matter. What piece will you play?"

"The Chaconne by Vitali," Tom said promptly.

"Indeed!" Dumbledore laughed. "I expected nothing less. Very well. Let me see the parts."

Tom held his face expressionless, not having expected to get this far with the old fool. He removed the dog-eared score from his bag and placed it gingerly upon Dumbledore's desk. Dumbledore perused it thoroughly, keeping time on the side of the page as he went. "Strange," he concluded after a moment. "I did not expect something so ... pure from you." Tom raised an eyebrow. "All right, then. I will accompany. For this beautiful piece, you understand. Not for you."

The old fool was rarely so candid. There it was, this enmity betwixt them, never spoken, never admitted. It was ... painful to hear. The assumption that he had come by his violin illicitly also stung. Dumbledore had no idea ... His music meant survival. Before he had learned to use his magic in self-defence, playing the violin had interested the thuggish older boys enough that they beat him less than they did his musicless age-mates.

"Thank you, sir," he replied, with a slight curving of his lips. "I look forward to my—our—success."

"Indeed, Tom. As do I."

They began practicing the following day.

It was like nothing Tom had experienced previously. The professor was as adept as his reputation. But it was more than that: He loved the piece; he dwelt on the funereal passages with the same reverence that Tom always had. Tom had never felt such a tacit understanding with— No. This was Dumbledore, the man who had condemned him as incurably corrupt when they first met. There could be no rapport. And yet during these sessions, he could not deny its presence.

At the conclusion of their third meeting, Dumbledore called him back as he made to depart. "Tom, you have a gift for music, as you do for anything you attempt. I have not had any student hitherto that exhibited such promise while still in school."

Momentarily lost for words, Tom stared at Dumbledore. "I—that is—thank you, sir." Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling the way they did when he praised his precious Gryffindors. That beatific expression had never been for him. What was Dumbledore playing at, if anything? As he made his way back to the Slytherin Common Room, Tom wished Dumbledore's approval had come sooner, had always been; for he was the man Tom wished to impress. Professor Slughorn's stifling high regard meant so little in comparison.

#

Albus Dumbledore did not consider himself a petty man. If he disliked a student, his reasons were legitimate (except perhaps that odious Melvin Umbridge, who made a mess of anything he touched). Tom Riddle was intelligent and charismatic, a frighting combination. Why did he want to win this prize? Beyond furthering nefarious schemes, Dumbledore could not imagine it was for the music's sake.

The Chaconne had always been a favorite of his. Gellert had introduced it to him all those years ago, when he had been wallowing in bitterness after his mother's untimely death. They had played it together for the last time, only days before Ariana died. What did Tom hear in it?

Tom's reaction to his genuine praise had been guileless surprise. Grateful, even. All an act. Everything Tom did was calculated—calculated to gain approval, so that anything disagreeable he might do would be overlooked. Nothing more, nothing less. Could he, in good conscience, allow Tom this success, when he had the ability to prevent it?

#

Cecilia Malfoy hated her relatives. At every gathering, they made snide suggestions as to which lucky Pure-Blooded family's second- or third-born son she should consent to "give yourself to in holy matrimony." Without fail, she refused to entertain any possibilities. She was happy with her nondescript job in the Ministry and performing with a Muggle string quartet, thank you very much. What did she need a man and children for? Her brother had married and produced an heir (her snot of a nephew, Abraxas), so there was no need for her to follow suit.

Sometimes she wondered what annoyed her family most: her refusal to wed or her association with Muggle musicians. Hell if she cared either way. Sponsoring a music competition that didn't bar Muggle-Born applicants seemed like a fine way to spite them.

#

Backstage at the Hogsmeade Chamber Hall, Tom inspects his fellow performers. Lucretia Black frowns at him coolly. The Hufflepuff flute player nods politely, looking much more relaxed than he expected after witnessing her tears three weeks ago. "Did you find someone to accompany you?" he asks, in order to break the glacial silence.

"Oh no," she replies. "I chose a piece that needs no one but me."

"Which one?"

"Syrinx, of course. I hope Dumbledore hates it."

Lucretia snorts derisively. "Why should he care? He'll hardly notice you, seeing as he chose Riddle over you."

"Whatever. I'm here because I want to play," Coreen says. "I hope Ms. Malfoy judges fairly."

"Lucretia Black, you're first," someone calls.

"Well well, good luck," Lucretia snaps over shoulder as she leaves. Neither Tom nor Coreen deign to respond.

They hear Cecilia Malfoy give a few token introductory words ("I welcome all of you to a night of beautiful music provided by the best Hogwarts has to offer. I don't care who wins, only that everyone enjoys the evening"), which is promptly followed by Lucretia diving into a vehement rendition of a Liszt sonata. Coreen goes next; her skill surprises and annoys Tom. She can have no place in his world order; he thinks she might be better than Pure-Blood Lucretia. 

Tom's name is called. Walking out onto the stage, he and Dumbledore greet each other cordially. As he tunes one last time, Tom gazes out into the audience. Cecilia Malfoy—who has Abraxas's pale complexion and pointed features—sits regally, with a clipboard and quill balanced on her lap. Lucretia and Coreen sit in the third row. They do not meet his eyes.

Dumbledore plays the opening chords, and Tom immediately forgets his purpose in competing. In this moment, nothing matters more than the music itself. He and the professor play the Chaconne as if nothing outside it can touch them. Each modulation, each restatement of the theme renews Tom's love of the piece, and makes him ache for Dumbledore's approbation. But as the piece concludes, something is wrong. The applause is hesitant, and Cecilia Malfoy's expression is stormy. What '''?

But Tom's confusion is quickly put to rest. Dumbledore turns to him and smirks, the sound of his last chord, which he had played a half-step too low, reverberating through the hall. Tom stalks from the stage, not bothering to bow or give the audience any acknowledgment. Dumbledore had ruined everything!

Malfoy's announcement of the winners proves his suspicion. "I am very proud indeed to present the first place prize to both Miss Black and Miss Fleming. They have demonstrated musicianship of the highest degree. Mr. Riddle will receive the second prize, despite that unfortunate ending."

"Tom?" Dumbledore has followed him back here. Why? Can't he leave well enough alone?

"What is it, sir? Are you happy about ruining my chances today?"

Dumbledore is impassive. "You did very well."

"And that last chord was an accident?" Tom spits.

"Oh, no. I couldn't allow you to beat Miss Fleming."

Tom doubts this. "You couldn't let a piece be played without bringing our disagreements into it. Good day, professor." He runs from the hall, not looking back, feeling hot tears streaming down his cheeks.

Cecilia Malfoy smiles as she hands Lucretia and Coreeen their prizes. She definitely wouldn't hear the end of this, giving a Muggle-Born first prize. Ha! Let her family disown her!

Dumbledore stands alone, wondering if he has made a terrible mistake. Despite his susmicions of the boy, Tom was as of yet still a child. What has he just wrought?

**Author's Note:**

> Tom, please forgive me.


End file.
